Milbanke's absorption was so unfeigned that when Clodagh came running back nearly three hours later, full of remorse for her long desertion, he greeted her with something amounting to regret. Twice she had to remind him that the afternoon was all but spent and the long walk to Orristown still to be reckoned with, before he could desist from the fascinating task of completing the notes he had made. At last, with a little sigh of amiable regret, he shut up his book, returned the magnifying-glass to his satchel, and slowly followed her out of the churchyard. They had covered half a mile of the smooth strand, across which the first long shadows of evening had begun to fall, before the glamour of the past centuries had faded from his consideration, permitting the more material present to obtrude itself. Then at last, with a little start of compunction, he realised how silent and uninteresting a companion he must seem to the girl walking so staidly beside him; and with something of guilt in the movement, he withdrew his eyes from the long, wet line of sand where the incoming tide was stealthily encroaching. "Miss Clodagh," he said abruptly, "what are you thinking of?" With frank spontaneity, she turned and met his gaze. "I was wondering," she said candidly, "when you'd forget the Round Tower and remember about father." He started, roused to a fresh sense of guilt. "You--you mustn't think----" he began stammeringly. But Clodagh laughed. "Oh, don't bother about it!" she said easily. "I wasn't really thinking." For a while he remained silent, watching the noisy dogs as they ineffectually chased the seagulls that wheeled above the unruffled waves; then, at last, urged by his awakened conscience, he half paused and looked again at the girl's bright face. "Miss Clodagh," he began, "I feel very guilty--I _am_ very guilty." Clodagh glanced back at him. "How?" she said simply. "Because last night I unconsciously did what you disapprove of. I played with your father for high stakes, and I am ashamed to say that I won a large sum of money." For an instant the brightness left her glance; she looked at him with the serious eyes of the night before. "Much?" she asked impulsively. "Twenty pounds." Milbanke felt himself colour. Then he rallied his courage. "But that isn't all," he added quickly. "I have something worse to confess. When I came down to breakfast this morning I found a cheque lying on my plate. I felt intensely remorseful, as you can imagine; and determined to make reparation. After breakfast I broached the subject to Denis; I begged him to allow me to cancel our play by tearing up the cheque. He was furiously angry; and I, instead of showing the courage of my opinion, was actually weak enough to succumb. Now, what punishment do you think I deserve?" He paused, looking at her anxiously. For a while she looked steadily ahead, absorbed in her own thoughts; then slowly she looked back at him with interested, incredulous eyes.